


All the Boys and I

by kizuke



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Barebacking, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mandatory Saving-Stiles-From-His-Virginity fic, Multi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-26
Updated: 2013-12-26
Packaged: 2018-01-06 06:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103334
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kizuke/pseuds/kizuke
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Scott and Stiles are kind of uncomfortable with the whole notion at first, but then they kiss and it’s like a switch flipped. It’s all Isaac’s fault. (He’s taking the credit.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Boys and I

“It’s  _Stiles_ ,” Scott protests loudly, horrified.

“Scott,” Isaac says, staying Scott’s arms with his hands, “It’s  _Stiles_.”

Scott stills abruptly, then slumps. “Oh god. Stiles is going to  _die_. I can’t let him die.”

“ _We_  can’t let him die,” Isaac says, firmly.

*

Scott explains.

“But – it’s  _Scott_ ,” Stiles protests loudly, horrified. He’s looking at Isaac in supplication, as if it hadn’t been Isaac’s idea in the first place.

“We can’t let you die,” Isaac says, gently.

“No?” asks Stiles, licking his lips.

“No,” says Scott.

“I could ask Danny again,” Stiles suggests, without much hope.

“No,” whispers Scott, leaning in.

It’s weird at first, soft lips and startled breath, but Stiles tastes exactly like he smells – like pepperoni, like Adderall, like  _Stiles_ , like home. It’s Stiles. It’s just Stiles. It’s all Stiles. He pulls a hairsbreadth away, looks at Stiles’ eyes through the curtain of his lashes. Stiles leans forward slightly, eyes caught on his lips, looking lost in a way that Stiles never does. Scott surges back forward, disliking that look on his face, wanting him to be sure of Scott again, to know where they stand with each other.

Stiles is lax for a moment, then a soft noise escapes into Scott’s mouth and suddenly Stiles is kissing back, long, strong fingers bracketing Scott’s face. Stiles’ tongue finds his, questing, and it’s  _Stiles_ ; Stiles’ hand brushes over his ear and cards decisively into his hair, and it’s  _Stiles_. Stiles looks at him with a flash of uncertainty as he withdraws for long enough that Isaac can pull his shirt over his head for him, and that’s also Stiles; Scott channels his reassurance and frustration into his hands, one tugging Stiles’ t-shirt up insistently and the other running over the planes of Stiles’ back.

“Shirt,” Isaac says, and Stiles laughs softly, raises his arms and keeps still for long enough that Isaac can get it off. Isaac tosses the shirt aside and bends over to kiss his upturned face, and Scott  _knows_  that Stiles is thinking about Spiderman right now, knows it like he knows his own name.

“Bed, MJ,” says Scott, tugging at Stiles’ hand. Stiles stumbles out of his chair and they all tumble onto the bed, laughing, Stiles half-sprawled over Scott and Isaac curling up on Stiles’ other side. Isaac nudges Stiles until Stiles rolls over to kiss him some more. It makes Scott’s chest feel so tight; he buries his nose in Stiles’ hair, covers one of Isaac’s hands with one of his own, breathes deeply in. Stiles lets out a soft sigh in counterpoint. Scott reaches around with his free hand to feel the tail end of Stiles’ exhalation, trails up a little to rub briefly at a nipple, then down over a tree-climbing scar to brush over the hair at his navel. Stiles inhales sharply; Isaac tenses under Scott’s hand for a second before relaxing again.

“Is this okay?” Isaac asks as Scott dips under the waistband of Stiles’ sweatpants.

“ _Yes_ ,” Stiles hisses shakily, clutching the front of Isaac’s shirt, then buries a noise in the crook of Isaac’s neck as Scott palms his bare dick. He’s not wearing underwear,  _god_ , Scott should have known that; Stiles doesn’t wear underwear to bed; but he didn’t think to think about it, and now Stiles is hot under his hand. He strokes down again, twice, then grips Stiles gently, and Stiles lets out a groan. “God, I want you so much,” Stiles says hoarsely into the space between himself and Isaac, kisses Isaac again; but Scott can hear him, knows that he means the both of them, all of it.

Isaac tenses under Scott’s hand again; Scott looks over Stiles’ shoulder to see Stiles palming him over his jeans. Isaac leans around Stiles to kiss Scott, but it’s an untenable position and they all slip, laughingly, into a pile on the bed. “Great; my abs were killing me,” Stiles complains, but his voice is harsh and sex-deep. Isaac sits up to smirk at him; Scott sits up to kiss Isaac hungrily and the smirk falls away as quickly as it had come. “Oh my god,” says Stiles, looking up between them, between Scott’s bare chest and Isaac’s rumpled shirt to where their mouths meet, sharing bare traces of Stiles’ lingering taste. They’re kissing for him, and for each other, and for themselves, mostly; it’s so hot in this small bed, and Scott wants both of them to lose themselves in it, to be right in the heart of it.

They break apart, panting, and see that Stiles has shoved his sweatpants halfway down his hips and is trailing the tips of his fingers over the length of his cock, his hips occasionally making little twitchy jerks. Isaac growls in the back of his throat; pounces. He bats Stiles’ fingers away and seals his mouth over the head of Stiles’ cock, then pulls right off again with an obscene pop. Stiles shouts. Unsympathetic, Isaac licks a swathe from root to tip, then takes him in again as far as he will go, cheeks hollowing. Scott presses Stiles down into the mattress; sure enough, it’s not long before Stiles is shooting down Isaac’s throat with a silent cry, his body trembling against Scott’s hands, trying to fly off the bed. Scott’s entire body shudders in sympathy.

Isaac clambers over Stiles to get to him, pushing him down onto his back and kissing him harshly; Stiles makes a tiny inquiring noise, half-lidded eyes following Isaac’s movements. Scott reaches out for him, grabs his hand. “Lube,” Isaac demands; Scott doesn’t wait for Stiles to gather an answer, just scrabbles in the nightstand for it. Isaac’s dry thumb brushes across his perineum and down over his hole and he gasps, just a little. Stiles quickly loses his lethargy and scrambles up to watch, eyes wide; Scott almost loses his grip on the bottle of lube as Isaac presses against his hole again and, impossibly, a fresh wave of Stiles’ arousal fills the air.

He manages to get the bottle out and hands it to Isaac. Stiles helps him settle into the centre of the bed, ensconced in pillows like a king, legs spread wantonly apart. Stiles leans in to kiss the tip of his dick, then his chest, then his lips and his nose, as Isaac works a slick finger inside him. “Look at you,” says Stiles, watching Isaac’s face avidly. “You’re so tight, aren’t you, but Isaac’s going to get you so open, so slick for him – ” He stops, inhales sharply. “ – for me, for us, so open, Scott,” and he kisses Scott, now, deep and sensuous, and then Isaac’s sliding in. The world slides to a halt as Scott’s senses all pool in that one spot where they’re joined, in the slight hot burn and in their joined scents, then he catches the light of Stiles’ eyes and the sound rushes back, Isaac panting over him with the strain of staying still. He smiles up at Isaac, in thanks and invitation, then turns to Stiles, who looks – and then his eyes screw shut and he feels the slide of cotton under his cheek as his head tips up and he bares the entire expanse of his neck to Stiles as Isaac slides in, bottoms out.

It’s a deep, dark burn, and he arches with the pleasure of it, of being there in that place. Isaac draws out, slowly, slams back in, and stars spark behind his eyelids, Stiles’ hands warm in his. He’s breathing too hard to form words, but Stiles is speaking for him, a warm stream of words. Isaac keeps him teetering on the edge, switching the pace from sweet to brutal to sweet, and it’s all he can do to hold on. He manages to get his eyes open again, though, to see them both, and Stiles breathes, “Come, now, Isaac,” and Isaac does.

Isaac collapses on top of him, still mostly in him, and Scott runs his free hand over Isaac’s back. They breathe carefully, Scott still hard and leaking between them. He feels so  _present_ , it’s surreal.

Eventually, though, Isaac pulls off; Scott grips Stiles’ hand tightly to ward off the sense of loss. “Your turn,” Isaac tells Stiles, unearthing the lube from under a pillow. “Condom?” Stiles shakes his head – werewolves can’t get venereal diseases; it’s fine. Isaac leans over Scott to help slick Stiles up – Stiles hisses at the cool contact – and presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles’ mouth, then another to Scott’s shoulder. He smooths Scott’s hair away from his face, oddly tender, and takes one of his hands as Stiles lets go of the other.

Stiles kneels between Scott’s legs, just looking at him, for a long moment. Isaac is watching them both, the ends of his lips curled up. Stiles notices and clambers forward to lick into Isaac’s mouth, then draws away to kiss Scott more tenderly; lets all their tastes mingle softly on his tongue. They’re still kissing as the head of Stiles’ cock breaches him; Stiles moves achingly slowly despite the fact that Scott is loose and welcoming. Scott wraps his legs around Stiles’ hips in blatant invitation. The pressure in his balls, which had somewhat abated in the interval, rises inexplicably quickly despite Stiles’ slow pace, and he needs  _more_. Stiles refuses to take the hint – he is painfully tender, painfully controlled, and ups the pace in tiny increments until Scott is writhing with need beneath him.

Scott whines, completely untethered, and Isaac tightens his grip on his hand, and Stiles chooses that moment to pound right in. Scott arches with a gasp, driving himself even more deeply onto Stiles’ cock, and Stiles’ even control shatters into wildness. The sound of slapping skin on skin, the susurration of sheets, and – most unconscionably – the thick squelch of Isaac’s come inside him completely overwhelm him, and Scott comes and comes and wrenches Stiles’ orgasm out of him as he tries to fuck him through it.

Scott’s mind is blessedly silent as he comes down from it, lulled by the others’ asynchronous breaths.

“So, that was probably the most thorough deflowering of the century,” Stiles says as he pulls out. Scott and Isaac groan in unison, but there’s come spilling out of Scott onto the sheets – Stiles’ and Isaac’s – and they’re so satiated by the smell of all three of them together that there’s no disturbing their contentment, really. They pull Stiles down over them to kiss him silent and into sleep.


End file.
